


A Second Soul

by ContreParry



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe- Daemons, Eventual Romance, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-13 04:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5695099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContreParry/pseuds/ContreParry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those who make the voyage to the Fade can maintain far distances from their daemons without ill effects, but Fenris is certain he never walked those roads. But nothing else could explain why he the only living being in Thedas to wander the land without his memories or his daemon, a second soul bound to his own.</p><p>He hopes he will find answers in Kirkwall, the City of Chains, but instead he finds a rowdy band of misfits and more questions than answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At The Start of All Things

**Hawke**

It was always when you saw the end of the road that disaster struck. Everything leading to that point had been disastrous: a fifth Blight rose up. Darkspawn attacked Ostagar. The King was dead, betrayed by those he trusted most. But they were fine. Carver and Cora ran from Ostagar to Lothering as the city fell apart around their heads. Carver's legs shook from exhaustion and his daemon's paws tender from racing along the rocky Ferelden landscape, but they arrived in Lothering before a second wave of darkspawn emerged from the underground. 

All four Hawkes fled the nest as their former home burned to ash. Marian had her bow in hand as Lysander circled overhead, his eagle eyes ever watchful. Bethany strapped her staff to her back as Alan clung to her shoulder, the little swallow resting his wings before he joined Lysander in the sky. Mother daintily picked her way over rocks and dirt and fallen bodies as if they were puddles of muck that would stain the edge of her dress. Her stoat daemon, Edric, draped across her shoulders like a fine lady's fur stole. They left everything behind, they were pursued from every corner, but they were together and the Hawkes stayed together. They were going to make it. Against all odds they would survive the Fifth Blight. 

Then Carver fell. He gave out a surprised, angry shout as the troll slammed into him and flung him around like a limp doll. It was fast, too fast, and they were too slow. Cora screamed in terror and pain, Carver was silent, and there was the sickening crunch of bone as troll, man, and dog fell to the dried earth and all was terribly still. 

“This is your fault!” Mother hissed out, cradling Carver's limp form in her arms, his head on her lap, his blue eyes staring blankly into the sky. Edric curled up into a ball against Carver's throat and let out an agonized wail, his red-gold fur gleaming against Carver's ashen skin. Cora was gone, and Carver gone with her. Gone where they could not follow, until death claimed them all. 

“How could you let him charge off like that? Your little brother!” Mother's voice cracked, and she added her own sobs to her daemon's cries. 

“Mother, we can't stay here.” Bethany begged. Alan anxiously fluttered over her shoulder. “Carver wouldn't want his sacrifice to be meaningless.” 

Marian knelt in the blood and muck and dust by her brother's side. She could have stopped it, she should have stopped it. She failed and now he was dead, and wouldn't her father just roll in his grave if he knew how his eldest child let his youngest die in the dirt when she could have done something, anything, taken the blow in his place! She said they'd all make it out alive! She promised. Well don't look now, Malcolm Hawke, Marian thought bitterly. Your daughter just fucked up royally. 

“Marian, don't. It's not your fault.” Lysander murmured for her ears alone. His large talons dug into Marian's shoulders, his feathers brushing against her cheek as he groomed her hair with his beak. But it was her fault. She was the eldest. She was supposed to protect them, protect them all. It was Carver who paid the price for her inattention, but it should have been her who fell. 

“We have to keep moving.” She said, decisive. The tears had to wait because she would not fail again. “They'll catch us if we delay much longer.” They being Darkspawn. Darkspawn didn't stop for death, they dealt it. 

“Ashes we were, and ashes we become. Maker, give this young man a place at Your side. Let us take comfort in the peace he has found in Eternity.” The Templar, Wesley, murmured a benediction, his arm slung around his hard-bitten wife's broad shoulders. Behind them, the Templar's mountain lion swayed uneasily, her tail twitching anxiously. The woman's large brown bear stood sentry and rear guard, ever watchful, ever wary. 

“We'll make a coin.” The warrior woman, Aveline, promised Mother. “Your son and his daemon will not be forgotten.” The only way they could live to mourn, however, was if they got out of this Blight infested land alive. But Marian would see them through. Carver would never have the chance to be forgotten. 

Marian Hawke would make sure of it. 

**Aveline**

“Before I take you anywhere, there is another matter...” 

Aveline knew what that matter was before the Witch uttered the words. Wesley was injured. Dying. Blight poisoning, and it was spreading too fast. Aveline had always been stronger and faster than her peers. She could pick up and wield a broadsword without pause, deliver swift and brutal death to her opponents.... but she could not stop the Blight, even as she denied her husband's words. 

“What has been done to your man is within his blood already.” The Witch of the Wilds, Flemeth, the creature that turned from dragon to elderly woman, a thing of legends that stalked outside of the ring of firelight and lurked in shadow, looked at Aveline, her yellow eyes piercing and knowing. 

“You lie!” If only her words could make it real, but Aveline knew lies from truth, and her cheeks flushed in anger and shame. Give her a shield and a weapon and Aveline could carve her way through armies. But she couldn't stop the infection slowly killing her husband from within. She couldn't fix it, couldn't save him. Wesley was doomed and she could do nothing. 

“Aveline.” Devlin huffed, her daemon's large, fur covered bulk serving as a cushion for Wesley and Reina. Wesley's panther rested her large head on his lap. Her breathing was harsh, uneven, a reflection of Wesley's corruption. There was no time left, no way to help them. 

“She's right, Aveline.” Wesley croaked, pale on the ground. Reina lifted her head and stared at Aveline with her bright golden eyes. “I can feel the corruption inside me.” 

Aveline bit her lip as she knelt next to her husband and took his hand, his grip weak. She remembered that day when those calloused, strong hands shook as they placed a ring on her finger, how his eyes lit up when he saw her, how Wesley always made her feel cherished and beautiful. Yet he never tried to change her. He was proud of the woman she was- strong and devoted. A matched pair, they were. A matched pair, from the moment they stumbled into each other to now as they crouched in Ferelden dirt. 

How could he ask her to do this to him? She couldn't carry this burden alone. 

“Please, Aveline.” Reina murmured in her rich voice. “We would die by our choosing, not by the taint coursing in our blood.” 

“The corruption is a slow death. We can't-” Wesley finished, turning his face into her palm as she reached out. She couldn't deny them peace, she could not let them suffer- but was there truly no other way? The young woman, Hawke, her large eagle daemon perched on her shoulder, knelt on the other side of Wesley. The Witch of the Wilds lingered in the background, observing the scene with her cold yellow eyes. 

“He's your husband, Aveline.” Hawke said gently, an attempt to soften what had to be done. “I can't decide his fate.” 

Aveline would never ask for someone else to do what Wesley had requested. He wanted her to measure out his end. It was her duty to see it through. Aveline could sense Devlin's resignation, the knowledge that there truly was nothing to be done. This was the only course of action to be taken, and he offered her the determination to see it through should Aveline be unable to deliver a final blow. 

“Be strong, my love.” Wesley murmured, pulling the knife he kept at his side. They grasped it together, a matched team in one more task. As one they pushed the dagger in. One gasp, two, and they were gone. Reina's heavy form ceased to be, and Aveline closed her husband's eyes. 

“Without an end, there can be no peace.” The Witch, Flemeth, stated. It was a fact as cold as her husband's skin. Aveline took no comfort from it. 

“It gets no easier. Your struggles have only just begun.” 

**Bethany**

Her father and brother were both dead. Her mother was in shambles, and her sister was now as silent and still as a statue. Their traveling companion stood silent on the boat deck, having killed her partner in an act of final love and mercy. Bethany Hawke failed to find anything good about this moment. 

“We're alive.” Alan offered, trying to be positive. Bethany could only grimace. Yes, they were alive, but living did not feel like something to be happy about. She felt like jumping off the boat and letting the sea take her to the Maker's side, where Carver and Cora and Father now rested. The only reason she hadn't jumped was that Mother was too distraught and Marian would blame herself. She had to be strong, but Bethany didn't know how to be the strong one. That was Marian's job. Bethany cuddled and coddled and cared for others, but Marian was the one who protected them, the one who was tough. But Marian was brittle now, as brittle as iron heated and cooled in a poor forge. One too many hits and she would break, and then where would they all be? 

“What do we do now?” She asked Alan quietly so Mother and Marian couldn't hear. “I don't think things will be well in Kirkwall. We can't be the only ones heading there.” She was certain they weren't. There were so many refugees swarming the docks at Gwaren, and theirs wasn't the only ship that left the port. 

“We go to Kirkwall, find your uncle, and survive until the Blight clears up.” Alan said firmly, his small feathered body warm against Bethany's cheek. “We'll manage, so long as we're together.” 

“Yes.” Bethany knew she could count on Alan to cheer her up, even if it was only a little bit. “We'll manage.” She hoped others from Lothering were able to manage. Was the baker able to escape the destruction of the town? What about his wife, who was very pregnant? Or that strange but sweet Chantry sister with the red hair and nightingale daemon? Bethany liked her witty conversations, so unlike her sisters in the Chantry. 

“Don't worry, Bethany.” Alan chirped. “We'll keep each other safe.” 

“Yes, Alan. We will.” Bethany replied. 

Father was gone. So was Carver. Mother was in no state to lead and Marian was broken down with guilt. Bethany would have to lead them and protect them if they wanted to live. And Bethany found that she very much wanted to live, if only to ensure her mother and sister survived with her. 

**Isabela**

“Southern wind.” Kai remarked. “Smells like death.” He flapped his wings in an irritated manner, as if the air polluted his feathers and he wanted to clean them off. The clean lines of black and white on his feathers gleamed in the sun, and he took great pride in his grooming. No normal tern was as clean and polished as he was. “It's all rotten.” 

“Might be all those fish on the docks, sweetling.” Isabela replied flippantly, leaning against the railings of her ship. They just docked at Antiva City, and Isabela was already ready to cast off. Oh, Antiva was fine enough. Plenty of drinks, plenty of people, and enough debauchery to make a well-worked whore blush. But she felt restless. There were adventures to be had and quite a bit of smuggling to be done so she could pay off a few debts. Fuck Castillon. The nug-humping bastard. She'd gut him but that'd be too good for him, and at least she knew Castillon. Whoever filled the void he'd leave behind in the wake of his death could be even worse. Better to work with the bastards she knew, Isabela thought, than risk it all on the chance that someone might not be quite as bastard-y. 

“No. It's further away than that.” Kai's smooth dark head twitched to the left. “Nowhere near where we're heading, though.” They were sailing somewhere off the coast of Rivain, picking up lyrium and loading up a new shipment of... goods. Yes, Isabela thought, goods. Very neutral. At least it wasn't slaves again. Fuck Castillon. May he rot in the Void after he paid her her coin and she paid her debts. 

“Eh, good.” Isabela remarked as she gazed into the waters lapping around her ship. “Maybe we can go ashore for a night, find some fun where we can? It is Antiva, after all.” 

Kai ignored her, his snooty bird beak up in the air as he ruffled his feathers again. Isabela laughed and picked him up so he could sit on her shoulder. He nestled in the crook of her neck and began to nibble on her earlobe. 

“Only if the fun is cards and drinking, Isabela. Not your other fun.” Kai finally said. 

“Don't give me that, Kai, you like my kind of fun on shore leave.” Isabella replied, teasing her all too prim and proper daemon. 

“You are impossible.” Kai sniffed. “I don't see the appeal in all that flopping around on a mattress like beached seals. It's hardly graceful, and there is little pleasure to be found in carnal acts.” 

“Out of all the possible daemons I get saddled with the prude.” Isabela complained, but she scratched underneath Kai's beak as she walked down the to shore, whistling a cheerful shanty as she twirled a knife in her hand. 

She needed as much alcohol as she could get down her throat before she talked business with fucking Castillon. 

**Merrill**

There was something wrong in the forest. Merrill could feel it and informed Marethari straight away. Thankfully Clan Sabrae's Keeper was as aware of the odd twists and tears in the magic as her First was. She ensured that the hunters were well informed of the dangers that lurked beyond their circle of aravels. It did little to settle Merrill's mind, so she went on a walk to seek out the mysteries herself. Her people needed protection, and the best way to provide that was through knowledge. And you only learned if you went out and explored and asked questions. At least that's what Merrill believed. 

“Something's wrong, Jariel. Very, very wrong. Do you think it could be a demon? Or perhaps Darkspawn? Or maybe a dragon? Oh, I hope it's a dragon, at least those won't be as bad. That would be quite exciting, really.” She knew she was babbling, but babbling was what she did when she was nervous. She hoped her nerves would calm if she just said enough words at them. 

“I don't know, Merrill. It's... off.” Jariel chattered in her ear as she walked through the woods, checking the boundaries between their hunting grounds, the territories of the nearest shemlen, and the boundary between this world and the Fade. Nothing was out of order, but she felt something lurking just beyond her reach that made her uneasy. 

“Jariel, maybe we should speak with the demon.” Merrill said to her daemon. His little furry body stilled, his large bat ears swiveling anxiously at her words, and she felt his disapproval. Jariel didn't like the idea at all, not one bit, but it was the only thing Merrill could think of. Her clan needed whatever tools were at their disposal to protect themselves and their heritage, and Merrill could bear any burden if it meant her clan would prosper. 

“Merrill, be cautious.” Jariel warned as they wandered through a twisting cave system. “You always jump in too quickly, too eagerly. Be restrained. This oddness may pass with nothing to it.” 

“I will, Jariel.” Merrill promised, but her mind was already filled with questions she could ask and how to bind the demon from taking more than their fair share of a bargain. 

For her people, for her heritage, Merrill would find what was lost and restore what was broken. 

**Anders**

They were miles away from the Circle Tower. Miles and miles, and there was sky and trees all the way to the horizon, and Anders felt good Ferelden dirt under his feet. The smell of freedom smelled like dog shit. He chuckled, immensely pleased at his cleverness. After so many weeks, months in darkness, so many years surrounded by cold stone, he could finally walk around in sunshine and greenery. Anders sighed, reaching up to pluck a green leaf off a tree. He loved the color green, the color growing things, of life itself. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Anders practically skipped up the rocky incline as he walked away from the Circle Tower. Nothing and no one would stop him, stop them, from gaining freedom. 

“Ceadda, you are walking far too fast.” Maia scolded Anders, using his true name, the name the Templars all but erased when they took him from his home and called him “The Anders Boy.” Maia picked her way through brush and rock, tawny fur glimmering in the sun like a sand dune. Her eyes were bright and active, but she was cautious, black tipped ears twitching uneasily at every little sound. 

“We're almost out, Maia.” Anders crooned, reaching out to the mountain lion and dropping to his knees to cuddle her. “We'll find a town, go to a brothel, stay the night-” 

“Because that worked so well the last time we tried.” Maia snarked back, butting her head against Anders's chin. “Why a brothel, Anders? I hate brothels. Too many smells and sounds.” 

“It's the one place we can get a free room.” Anders replied calmly. “Get rid of any nasty infections among the workers and you get a hot meal, a warm bed, and some nice thing to squeeze all for free!” He laughed at Maia's disgusted snort. “What? Don't have any itches to scratch yourself?” 

“I want to save it for someone special, Ceadda.” Maia sniffed. “But I shan't judge you for your needs. Humans have so many, after all.” Her tail lashed and Anders let his daemon go, sensing her desire for physical comfort had ended. 

“Oh, I wouldn't mind having someone special.” Anders said cheerfully. “But I also know that's as likely as a flying nug.” He laughed again for the sheer pleasure of it and continued his walk to freedom. 

**Sebastian**

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.” Sebastian recited quietly, kneeling before the statuette of Andraste in his small room, candlelight burning down into the late hours of the night to the dawn of the next morning. 

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.” Ella finished the verse from the Canticle of Benediction, yawning lazily on the bed. The badger had been sleeping off the beef stew he had given her, but she was awake and lively now. 

“Ella. Did I disturb you?” Sebastian asked as Ella groomed her fur. 

“I was already awake. You recite that one often, Sebastian.” His daemon remarked. “Any particular reason why?” 

“I find it gives me peace.” Sebastian replied. “Did you sleep well?” 

“It was fine.” Ella hopped off the bed and curled up on Sebastian's lap. He ran his fingers through her course hair, paying special attention to the areas behind her ears. She growled a happy crooning growl and closed her eyes. “Are you going to do it?” 

“Hmmm?” Sebastian knew what Ella was talking about, but he didn't want to answer her. To be completely truthful, he didn't know the answer. He might never have an answer. 

“The Chantry. Are you going to join or not?” Ella asked, nudging his hand with her snout. 

“It's not so simple, Ella.” 

“Sure it is. Your family dumped you off and the Chantry has taken you in. Given you, given us, purpose.” She shrugged her sloped shoulders and rolled on her back, expecting a belly rub that Sebastian reluctantly gave her. “Except for Grandfather, you owe the Vaels nothing.” 

“They are still family.” Sebastian reminded Ella. “I cannot discard them.” 

“The Chantry has been more of a family to you than they are. Grandfather excluded of course.” Ella argued, and Sebastian agreed. He had to agree. 

Families don't leave their children in the cold. 

**Varric**

Varric sat at his table in the Hanged Man, Medeia at his right hand, when Bartrand stormed out muttering about pesky younger brothers and how he would do things his way or not at all. Varric sighed. Bartrand was Bartrand, he reminded himself, and Bartrand would do what he wanted to do because he was too full of dwarven pride to think of alternate solutions to problems. Medeia's russet fur puffed up along her back. She was still angry about their last encounter with Varric's brother and his mole daemon, and it soured this latest meeting too. 

“Well I'll be sure to give him a present when our idea succeeds and his fails!” She huffed, little fox nose wrinkled in distaste. “At least I don't hold grudges like that nug-headed son of a-” 

“Now now, Spitfire, she's my mother too.” Varric said easily, but he agreed with his daemon's opinion of his older brother. “We just need some more time to work Bartrand around, convince him we know what we're doing.” 

“You mean trick him into thinking it was his idea all along.” Medeia grumbled unhappily. “Varric, we need to find a better business partner, Bartrand's all up in his ass about dwarven shit and honor. Honor won't put coin in your pocket or food on your table. Honor won't get buildings built or people back to work.” 

“And I agree with you, but Bartrand's a tough rock to crack. Brain like granite, he won't budge.” Varric shrugged and returned to his letters, reading over more notices from the guild. Agonizing work, but if things were to be done properly he couldn't leave it to Bartrand, who'd muck it up even more. 

“Brain like sandstone and the size of a pebble.” But Medeia sighed and climbed up to settle around Varric's neck. “Find anyone interesting, Varric?” She asked in his ear as he glanced around the smoky tavern. 

“Plenty of people with stories to tell.” Varric responded casually. “And plenty of people are interesting.” 

“Sure they are. But who do you want to write about next?” Medeia knew Varric too well. 

“Now that's something.” Varric mused. “Haven't found anyone with a good enough story yet.” 

“Eh, if you're going to write a story, write the best one you can find.” Medeia replied, her tail twitching as she scanned the tavern with a critical eye. 

“Too true, Spitfire. When I find a good story, I'll let you know.” Varric said cheerfully, petting Medeia's head before returning to his work. There were plenty of stories to be told, and if Varric wasn't telling them he was making them. Varric had a feeling he'd been doing a lot of both in the near future. 

**Fenris**

He had been running so long he had forgotten what it felt like to stay still. Even a few hours respite in a cave put him on edge. Where were the slavers, the ones Danarius had nipping at his heels? He had escaped, hiding in the day, traveling by night with only the moon and stars as his guide. They were coming, had to be coming, Fenris knew they would pursue him across Thedas. He was only waiting for them to arrive, and every moment spent in stillness meant they drew ever closer to him. 

He would not let his hunters catch him. 

Fenris curled up into a tighter ball and looked at the cave entrance. Nothing. No one. Nothing but rain and gloom, which masked his scent and made him harder to track. It was safe to stay here and rest until nightfall. Fenris felt a twinge along his markings and vaguely wondered what caused the ache. He had not activated them recently, he felt no wounds on his body. He concluded the pain must be from his daemon. 

Yes. His daemon. Fenris knew he had one. All people did. But Fenris had never seen her. At least, he could not remember seeing her. Danarius held the idea of a reunion firmly in his hands, hanging it over Fenris's head, taunting him with the possibility, cementing Fenris's loyalty by giving him a tantalizing taste of what could be if only he was a good slave for his master. 

Fenris did not realize at the time that Danarius was a consummate liar. There were no reunions of any kind, and Danarius was never satisfied with Fenris. He always wanted more than could be given. He wanted to drain Fenris dry. Fenris could never give enough. 

Fenris had never met another like himself in all his travels. All people, all living people, had daemons, even the Tranquil mages who wandered about soulless and dead-eyed. But he did not. He hated it, hated that others could so easily take in the simple joy of companionship that he could never understand. He had no one. He was alone. He laughed bitterly, his voice echoing in the dark of the cave. Alone, half-mad without company, starving and dirty and covered in blood. He was a little wolf indeed. 

And he would tear Danarius's heart out for what he did to him.


	2. A Story To Be Told- Varric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric just happens upon the Hawke sisters and suggests a great business opportunity.

It took nearly a year of searching, but Varric finally found someone who just might be able to make his and Bartrand's mad scheme work. He heard of the Hawkes, the two young recruits who joined Athenril's gang last year. They were desperately trying to pay off their uncle's debts to enter Kirkwall, all so their poor mother could find some solace in her homeland after the loss of her husband, son, and home in the Blight. It was an all too common story among the Ferelden refugees who had lost everything to the Darkspawn. But the Hawke sisters, oh the Hawke sisters were different. Varric knew a good story when he heard one, and these golden girls were the kind of story everyone wanted to hear. At least, they would be if anyone got the chance to hear them. 

So when Varric had the opportunity to introduce himself, he gladly took it. Bianca sang, her crossbow bolt neatly loosening the clumsy pickpocket's greedy grip on the younger Hawke's coin purse. The bag of coins dropped to the cobblestones with a joyous tinkle of metal on metal on stone as the thief stumbled away in a panic. Varric let him go. The man wouldn't be picking pockets for a long time after that sort of scare. 

“The Hawke Sisters, I presume?” He asked politely, scooping up the coin purse and offering it back to the younger Hawke. She blushed prettily, pink roses rising up in her cheeks, her dark eyes dancing with equal parts embarrassment and good natured humor. Bethany Hawke, Varric thought as he looked the girl over. Barely nineteen, the daughter of Leandra Amell, the daughter of a once prosperous Kirkwall family, and Malcolm Hawke, a roguish apostate from Kirkwall's Gallows. By all accounts, Bethany had the beauty of her mother and the mage blood of her father. A talented girl as the rumors went, but a little too kind-hearted for harsh work and treachery. Even her daemon, a small swallow clutching the fabric of her scarf, served as evidence of her softer nature. Now her sister... Varric turned his gaze to the elder Hawke, only to find himself pierced by the twin glares of Bethany Hawke's taller sister and giant bird daemon, an eagle of some type with yellow eyes. 

Marian Hawke's eyes were not yellow. They were the pale blue of a winter sky, but they held the same intensity as her daemon's. This was not a woman who blushed, even though she shared a similar beauty to her mother and sister. But Marian Hawke's appearance was rougher, more angular, somehow harsher than Bethany. She was cold and hard, a will of iron and a heart of stone. This was the woman who dragged her family across the sea when everything was lost. This was a woman who could make miracles happen through sheer force of will. Varric knew that this was the woman he needed if his expedition was to ever get off the ground. 

“Thank you for returning our coin, sir.” Bethany Hawke finally said when the silence had drawn on too long. “But I am afraid you have us at a disadvantage. You know our names, but we do not know yours.” 

“Athenril's been talking.” The eagle said disapprovingly, glaring down from his perch on the elder Hawke's shoulder. “Deal with her and her rats now before they become a problem.” Medeia, who had draped herself along the back of Varric's neck, hissed up at the bird. 

“I'm not a rat, you feathered chew toy!” She barked back. The eagle ruffled his feathers, clearly affronted by the insult. 

“Shhh, Spitfire, he's not talking about us.” Varric said soothingly, stroking Medeia's russet fur. “Name's Varric Tethras. At your service.” He dipped into a slight bow with a bit of a flourish. Bethany Hawke was blushing brightly now, as pretty as a country maid at her first dance. Now that introductions were out of the way, Varric mused, he'd invite them to the Hanged Man, get some food in their bellies, and then get down to the business of hiring them on for the expedition. Or, Varric thought with a flash of Maker sent inspiration, he could bring the sisters on as full partners. After all, Bartrand would never agree unless- 

“What do you want?” Marian Hawke asked coldly, her arms crossed over her chest. Rather largely muscled arms, Varric noted, arms that were practiced at drawing her longbow or pair of daggers to slit a traitorous throat. Maybe he had relished his victory a little too soon, had assumed their cooperation too quickly. 

“Marian! He just helped us!” Bethany hissed, her dark doe eyes wide in horrified shock and her face white with embarrassment. Yes, a little too sweet for harsh things. Too bright and sunny for shadows... sunny, sun, Sunshine. 

“He's been in this square for an hour watching us both.” Marian said to her sister. “He's been waiting to play hero because he wants to talk. So talk, Tethras.” 

“Straight to business, then.” Varric grumbled. Hawke only narrowed her gaze. “I have a proposition for you. The city's abuzz with stories about the Hawke Sisters, Athenril's new recruits.” 

“Not any more.” The eagle muttered, but a quick twitch of Hawke's shoulder unbalanced him and he shut up. 

“Everything they touch turns to gold. Or so the rumors go.” Varric continued. He had their interest. Bethany was openly interested, and Hawke's blue eyes betrayed her own curiosity. These girls liked being informed. It probably saved their skins more than once. He had to keep the conversation going, keep the information flowing, or else the Hawke sisters would take their much needed talent and golden luck elsewhere. 

“I could use a bit of a magic touch.” Varric confessed. “I'm planning an expedition, and we need good people, skilled people, if we want to get out of it alive.” 

“If you want Bethany, you're getting me too.” Hawke warned. 

“And I need both of you, if you want the coin. This expedition will make you more money than you can spend, Hawke. Provided we survive it.” Marian Hawke seemed to like the sound of that. Varric observed the young woman's icy eyes brighten with excitement. Was it in anticipation for the challenge, or for the reward? He was normally good at reading people, but Hawke confused him. 

“My brother, Bartrand, he might not be so keen to take you on.” Varric warned them. If he was going to bring them on board, he had to be upfront about Bartrand. They would never agree to work with him otherwise, and Varric needed them for more than an expedition. He saw it in both Hawkes, in Bethany's posture and Hawke's pale eyes. He saw that they had stories, that they came from a lineage of stories and wild tales. Varric needed those stories, needed to tell those stories. 

He needed his fucking pen, that's what he needed. 

“Bartrand won't be happy about this because he's a moron.” Medeia said to the girls, leaping from his shoulders to the ground and trotting on ahead. “He's got a pickaxe up his ass about everything, probably wants to get an all dwarven crew signed on.” Her tail swished back and forth impatiently. “It's stupid for a hundred reasons, so be ready for him to say no.” 

“But we want you there.” Varric assured the girls. “Both of you. Invest in our expedition. Become a partner, and you get to share in the risk and the reward.” Varric promised. “I'll handle Bartrand. You just have to trust me.” He led the Hawke sisters over to Bartrand, who was arguing with some dwarf and being a general pest. Varric prayed to Andraste, the Maker, the Dwarven pantheon, and maybe a few of those Elvhen gods that Bartrand would be reasonable just this once. 

With Bartrand you needed all the divine luck you could get. 

“Bartrand didn't agree.” Medeia stated blandly as they walked away from Bartrand and his posse of dwarven followers. “But we knew he wouldn't.” 

Varric wasn't surprised that Bartrand was being Bartrand. But it certainly was disappointing. He had hoped that for once, Bartrand could see reason and let his reason overtake his dwarven pride, but it was not the case. Never the case. Bartrand was just so frustrating sometimes. All the time. 

“Bartrand is Bartrand, but he's easy to convince. Provided you have the coin.” Varric assured Marian Hawke and Sunshine. “I know you both can manage, we have time. Come with me to the Hanged Man. We need a drink after dealing with my brother.” 

“It will take fifty sovereigns to become a partner in the expedition.” The eagle muttered, just loud enough for the group to catch as Varric led them down the steps to Lowtown and the Hanged Man. “How will we even manage to get a hold of fifty sovereigns? It's hard enough to scrape up silvers in this town.” 

“Not if you know where to work and who to talk to.” Varric said. “With your talents, Hawke, you can get the coin. It will be worth it.” 

“It better be worth it, if I'm to spend a small fortune on your expedition.” Hawke said, her voice cold. Varric thought he saw Sunshine elbow her older sister in the ribs, but it might have been his over-active imagination. He entered the Hanged Man and quickly escorted them inside, herding them around the unsavory patrons and sitting them down at his customary table. Sunshine sat down cautiously, though she was polite enough to not check her seat for grime. Hawke collapsed on the bench in an undignified sprawl, though her eyes never lost their calculating, attentive glint. 

“I'm not in the habit of wasting anything, Tethras. I expect to get my due.” Hawke warned. 

“I'll get you the money you need, Hawke. More than you'll ever need, if everything goes as planned. Medeia, grab my ledger, will you?” But Medeia had already jumped up on the table, small leather booklet gently grasped in her mouth. She spat it out next to Varric's hand and jumped up to his shoulder to perch and groom herself. Varric gave her a quick scratch under the chin before flipping it open. In it he noted every rumor, every opportunity, every bit of gossip he could gather from around the city. It served him well to be well informed, and he knew exactly who was hiring out, who was willing to pay coin for odd jobs, and who would give a handsome reward for an item fetched or task completed. 

“Well, Sunshine, Hawke. I know just where you can start gathering coin.” Varric said, pointing to a name written in his ledger. “Why don't we stop by the guard barracks and start working on some investigations? We have a Templar searching for some missing people.” 

“It doesn't look like much of a reward.” Sunshine said as she glanced over the ledger. Her little bird daemon gave a low whistle that seemed to signify his agreement. 

“Every little bit counts, Sunshine. Every little bit counts.” Varric replied, flagging Nora and her mouse daemon down from across the tavern. “Let me get you some food, it's better than the drinks here.” 

“And we'll continue to talk business?” Hawke asked, her low voice cutting through the noise of the tavern. 

“Yes, Hawke. We'll keep talking business.” Varric promised, the thrill of a new deal and a new story rushing through his blood. He couldn't wait for it all to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea how I wanted to organize this story, but decided to write small introduction chapters for each character joining Hawke's party before shifting the primary focus to Fenris and Anders. There will be occasional extra chapters from other points of view, but the chapters will mostly alternate between Fenris and Anders after the entire party comes together. I hope that this will work, but it is very much a work in progress.
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos, written a comment, and/or bookmarked this work. I truly appreciate it!


	3. Thicker Than Water- Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian Hawke will do anything to keep her family safe. Anything.

Kirkwall was a shit hole. Marian hated it, hated living in the sewage and dirt of Lowtown. She hated living in Uncle Gamlen's drafty home as he lorded over Mother and Bethany and herself. She hated how he berated Mother for ever leaving Kirkwall, for falling in love and leaving for Ferelden, only to come back as a widowed refugee with two grown daughters and a past filled with hardship. Then he had the audacity to talk about his generosity and their greediness, as if his benevolence alone saved them from death and doom. 

Marian wanted to shove that man's teeth down his fucking throat. 

“Stupid son of a bitch.” Marian grumbled as she and Bethany left the house after another one of Gamlen's long-winded, taunting, drunken slurred speeches. Marian did not feel particularly grateful towards her uncle. Everything she earned in this Maker damned city she earned for herself. Gamlen did nothing but suck up her coin like a greedy, putrescent sponge. 

“Marian, do not talk about our grandmother that way!” Bethany hissed as they walked up a set steps to meet Varric in Hightown. The dwarf had wild plans to make money, and he was happy to bring the Hawkes in on his grand schemes. Marian liked that about Varric. He always had a plan, and his plans could keep her and her family fed, clothed and safe for a long, long time. Varric was a valuable acquaintance. She also liked his sense of humor, even though she still found it hard to laugh. Carver's death hung heavy around her neck, a millstone dragging her to the ends of the earth. She would never be rid of it. 

“It's only truthful.” Marian muttered. Lysander gave her a quick wing slap across the back of her head. It wasn't enough to hurt her, but it served as a quick scolding. Marian shrugged it off, as she shrugged off most scoldings. 

“No sourness today, Marian. We are meeting Varric for a job.” Lysander reminded her. 

“A rogue Grey Warden just manages to have a map of the Deep Roads on his person, and he just happens to be the helpful sort?” Alan piped up from his place on Bethany's shoulder. “Sounds suspicious. It could be a trap.” 

“It does seem a little too convenient. I trust Varric, but what if someone.... what if a Templar is watching?” Bethany asked in a small voice. Marian looked over her shoulder at her sister. She walked stiffly, spine straight, eyes darting every which way as they entered Hightown. There were Templars everywhere, wandering about in their armor, blazing sword sigils gleaming on their chests. It was frightening. Marian let Bethany pass her before taking up a position behind her and slightly to the right, the perfect place to nock, draw, and release an arrow without endangering her sister. They skirted around the Chantry and the sisters wandering around in the courtyard before rushing up the stairs of the keep. Varric was waiting there in the giant foyer. His fox daemon, Medeia, twined around his ankles impatiently, her fur gleaming in the candlelight. 

“So you made it!” Varric greeted them as they approached. Marian waved, a small gesture with her hand that was quickly over and done with. Lysander nodded, and Bethany gave the dwarf a cautious but friendly smile. Alan poked his head out and greeted the dwarf as well. 

“Hello, Master Tethras!” Alan said in his typically friendly fashion. “Are we ready to leave now?” 

“In a moment. I thought we'd recruit some extra muscle for our expedition today. The Grey Warden lives in Darktown. It can get messy down there. Never hurts to have some help.” Varric explained as he gestured towards the closed off guard office. Marian heard some loud shouting beyond the heavy oak doors. The wood muffled the conversation, but she could tell that someone was angry at someone else. Furious, really. The door slammed open and a surprisingly familiar figure shuffled out of the doorway, shoving his massive frame through the doorway. 

“Devlin.” Lysander greeted Aveline Vallen's giant brown bear daemon with an uncustomary friendliness. Marian knew that Lysander liked Devlin and his practical, quiet nature. Aveline's daemon was a calm protective force, and Marian already felt more at ease as Devlin lumbered up to their group. Behind him came Aveline, her guard armor gleaming and red hair bright as polished copper. She looked furious, the opposite of her daemon and his easy-going, gentle nature. 

“Tethras.” She addressed the dwarf first before she took notice of Marian or Bethany. When she finally looked at them, she seemed surprised and oddly pleased to see them both, despite the fact that they had not seen each other in nearly a year. “Marian Hawke! I had not expected to see you here.” 

“Aveline Vallen. Is the guard treating you well?” Marian asked. Aveline shrugged. 

“Let's get out of here. We can discuss more, when we're away from this place.” She muttered, ushering the group out of the barracks. “We're heading down to Darktown. This Grey Warden is secretive. The locals are frustratingly tight lipped about him. I had to pry information from one of the street urchins, and even that was troublesome.” 

“The boy said 'The Healer' may have been a Warden.” Devlin added as he shifted his weight and struggled to squeeze his muscular bulk through the tiny doorway. “He also made a rude gesture and ran off before we could gather more information.” Marian frowned. Secrets on secrets on secrets never boded well. There were too many ways to get tripped up and mixed up in secrets. She glanced over at Bethany, who also appeared wary. Varric, however, looked pleased, even slightly smug. 

“My information hunt was a bit more fruitful. My contacts say that the Warden's set up a clinic of sorts for Ferelden refugees.” He said, smile on his face. “Seems a bit like a bleeding heart, this Warden.” 

“A clinic of sorts?” Medeia snorted before climbing up Varric's back to rest on his shoulder. “It's a fully fledged hospital, if the rumors are true. The man is fighting a war against Death down there!” 

“Funny that we haven't heard of him before.” Marian said as they walked across the square. “If he helps Fereldens then we should have known he existed before any of you did.” 

“We're also rarely ill, Marian.” Bethany added quietly as they hastily passed the Chantry. “Hopefully we won't run into any troubles while we're down there-” 

“Sebastian, you must stop this madness!” An elderly woman they had just passed was loudly scolding a young man with auburn hair and a large bow strapped across his back. A handsome man by all accounts, and while Marian would normally pass by public disputes without thought, something about this made her pause. It may have been the notice on the Chanter's board the old woman was gesturing to, or the cold fire in the man's bright blue eyes, blue as the bluebells Bethany would gather to decorate their kitchen table in Lothering. It may have been the way the man's badger daemon paced back and forth at the man's feet, while the woman's hare daemon shifted uneasily next to her feet. Wether it was one or all of these things, it made Marian stop and listen. 

“The Chantry does not condone murder, Sebastian!” The woman continued to scold, reaching up to pull the poster from the board. She tore the thick parchment off, but there was a dull thud of something hitting the wood, and the parchment remained on the board. The woman glared at the man, her expression a mix of disappointment and disapproval, but she dropped her hand, the arrow shaft buried in the wood still quivering, pinning the notice in place. 

Marian could not help but be impressed. The man, Sebastian, had a quick draw and a quick eye. She always admired a fellow archer and their skills. She was nearly mad with envy over Varric's darling Bianca. She would like to trade a few tips with Sebastian, if she got the chance. Maybe she should introduce herself... Lysander made a low whistling sound of disapproval, a reminder that they had places to be and lots to do, and this was not the time to wander off or make new acquaintances. The notice would still be there when she came back. 

“What happened to my family was murder.” Sebastian retorted, lowering his bow to his side before stalking off, his badger daemon trotting at his heels. It seemed like she had missed her chance, but Marian decided she might as well read the notice. Sebastian took all that trouble to ensure it stayed up, after all. 

“Sunshine, does Hawke have a short attention span?” Varric quipped somewhere behind her, but Marian paid no mind as she skimmed over the poster- Mercenaries wanted to bring killers to justice, contact Sebastian Vael for more information, something about the Vael family of Starkhaven being slaughtered- oh. Marian frowned. It was family business, then. An image, as fast as a lightening strike, flashed across her vision- Carver, rubbing the spots behind Cora's ears with his thumbs, grumbling about her demanding nature while cuddling with his daemon. If she had the chance, the ability, to gain closure over Carver and Cora's deaths, Marian knew she would take it and take it eagerly, no matter who or what she had to kill to get there. 

“That man serves as a Chantry brother, though I do not believe he has fully taken his oaths.” Aveline commented, looking towards the direction Sebastian stormed off in. 

“He certainly seemed upset.” Bethany remarked. “Marian, we should go.” 

“In a moment.” Marian was still scanning the parchment. There was a reward, but Marian felt a bit conflicted over taking money for this sort of task. Family was important. It felt wrong to ask for a reward when it concerned a man avenging the deaths of his family. But Kirkwall was cutthroat. If she wanted to survive, she'd need to take money from whatever quarter offered it. Marian could not afford to be sentimental. 

“I apologize for the display you had to witness just now.” The old woman, who was dressed in elaborate Chantry robes, addressed Marian and her companions. “Sebastian heard some dreadful news about his family in Starkhaven. The guilt over the unfortunate affair has consumed him, and I'm afraid his daemon only encourages his displays of temper.” The woman continued, her daemon hopping up to cuddle in her arms, his long silver ears twitching slightly. 

“Grand Cleric Elthina.” Aveline greeted the woman politely. “Good morning.” Devlin once again loomed nearby. He had taken a position between Aveline and Bethany towards the back of the group, his bulk hiding Bethany from the watchful eyes of the Templars stationed at the Chantry. Maran silently thanked Andraste for Devlin's quick thinking and protective instincts. 

“Good morning to you, Guardswoman Aveline. You are on business, I presume?” Elthina asked, raising an eyebrow at the gathered group before her. 

“Yes.” Aveline said shortly. 

“We were delayed by your... confrontation just now.” Varric supplied when Aveline refused to say more. “Troubles, Grand Cleric?” 

“I had hoped to guide Sebastian away from choosing the path of violence in regards to his family, but my words are not enough to sway him. He was a few days from taking his vows when this terrible news about the Vaels came to us.” Elthina sighed. “He's driven by his desire for vengeance now, and Maker knows I cannot convince him to set that drive aside.” 

“Your entire family dying can do that.” Marian remarked dryly, ignoring Lysander's tight, disapproving grip on her shoulder. What could this woman possibly know about loss, Marian wondered. She was surrounded by the luxury of Hightown, raised in privilege and living in an elaborate Chantry where one candlestick could feed a family of six for a month. What would this woman know of losing your family, a father, a brother? Nothing, Marian decided. And her platitudes were worthless in the face of that sort of harsh loss. She did not blame Sebastian for wanting justice. 

“Perhaps the Maker will guide him down a different path, much as the Maker ended the Blight.” Elthina mused. The furrow between Aveline's brow deepened and Bethany shifted uneasily behind Devlin. The Maker? There was no Maker during the Blight, only death. 

“The Hero of Ferelden ended the Blight. Not the Maker.” Marian said cooly. 

“The Maker works in mysterious ways.” Elthina replied evenly. “I humbly request, should you choose to answer Sebastian's... call to arms, as it were, that you encourage him to let it go. To not seek violence.” 

“We will see. Good day, Grand Cleric.” Marian replied before walking away. The party followed. Lysander bent down to hiss in her ear, lightly nipping the cartilage in reprimand. 

“Marian Elise Hawke!” Lysander scolded. “Will you ever learn to attempt to be polite?” 

“He lost his family in a single night, Lysander!” Marian hissed back. “She could have tried to be sympathetic, but no! It was all about how hard she had it trying to hold him back, how his daemon's to blame for his bad turn, for just- ugh! She blamed everyone but herself, she's just as clean as a rose!” 

“So do you two always fight like this, or did I meet you at a bad time?” Varric joked, cutting the thick atmosphere with his jovial, quick wit. Medeia perked up instantly, grinning a mischievous grin. 

“Can we take bets? I say Hawke and Feathers over here fight constantly.” 

“You wouldn't be wrong.” Bethany said lightly, even as Alan protested that Marian and Lysander just liked to argue and never truly meant it. “But don't we have somewhere to be?” 

“Yes.” Aveline interjected. “The healer can be found in Darktown. Or so the stories go.” 

“Then we go down to Darktown.” Marian said firmly, but her mind remained on Sebastian and his notice. Throats slit and blood spilled... she didn't blame him for his anger. If anything were to happen to Mother, or Bethany... Marian glanced over towards her little sister, who was carefully listening to one of Varric's tall tales and nodding, smiling, and laughing at all the appropriate times. Bethany, who always worked so hard and never, ever complained or said a cross word in her life. She would protect Bethany with everything she had, because this time Marian would not let what happened to Carver happen to her sister. Bethany would live a happy, peaceful life in Kirkwall, once she and Varric pulled off this Deep Roads expedition. Bethany would never have to smuggle goods or skip meals or lose sleep ever again. 

No matter how much blood she had to spill, her family would be safe. Marian Hawke would make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few more chapters left before we get to the meat of the story. Once all characters have been properly introduced, we can get this train rolling! Thank you once again to everyone who has read, left kudos, bookmarked, and/or commented. I appreciate all of it!


	4. Mad Blood Stirring- Sebastian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian and his daemon discuss what must be done about Starkhaven, the Vaels, and themselves.

They were all dead and it was his fault. Sebastian knew it was his fault, despite Elthina's condolences and words of wisdom. If only he had been there, he could have prevented it. Murder. His family was murdered, slain in their beds by the people they thought were their friends. 

They were mistaken, and they paid for that mistake with their lives. 

He owed them nothing, Ella bitterly reminded him as they mourned. Grandfather was long dead and who cared about the Vael family anyhow? Bastards, each and every one of them. But she was as furious as he, as enraged as he was, and just as eager to set the score. One true Vael remained, and so long as he was alive he would seek justice for what happened to his family. 

“Stupid Elthina.” Ella grumbled as they sat back in their private room in the Chantry. She paced angrily around the room, her claws clacking loudly on the stone floor. “What does she expect us to do? Roll over and let Goran Vael rule Starkhaven?” She growled angrily, the thought of their soft and foolish cousin sitting on Starkhaven's throne as upsetting as the news of his family's murder. Her anxiety and anger only fueled his own fears and rage, and Sebastian felt lost among the heated emotions and vengeful feelings. He took a deep breath, then another. Calm. He must remain calm. He breathed in and out deeply. Slowly. In through the nose, holding it for five seconds, then out in slow, measured counts. It was just like his grandfather taught him so many years ago, when he was wild and unruly and so very hurt that his parents did not love him as much as they loved his older brothers. He and Ella would go into rages, destructive rampages fueled by their pent up anger and hurt. Grandfather saved them both, really, taught them how to control their anger and gave them a chance when the rest of the world wrote them off as lost causes. But now, at this moment, Ella struggled to remain calm. Sebastian had to balance out her anger before they both tumbled into madness. 

“Goran did not orchestrate the massacre. I am certain of it.” Sebastian said softly, staring out the window that overlooked the courtyard. Elthina was still outside, in a deep conversation with a group of people in front of his notice. He was pleased to see that, despite Elthina's protests, his poster stayed up. Someone was looking at the poster, a young woman with dark hair and a bow. Her daemon, a predatory bird of some kind, was perched up on her shoulder. Behind her stood a dwarf that seemed terribly familiar (though Sebastian could not think of where he met him or when), a pretty young woman who shared features with the young woman with the eagle, and a guardswoman he remembered from services a fortnight ago. 

The only one he had ever spoken to was the guardswoman. She requested a candle from him and hesitantly asked where she could get a memorial token made. Sebastian directed her to several vendors, and led her through a prayer for the departed before she left, armored boots clinking noisily against the stone tiles. He remembered feeling sympathy for her, and wondered who she had lost and how deep that loss cut, if she was making a token for their daemon. He remembered feeling grateful that he was spared that sort of pain after his grandfather passed on. Oh how wrong he was. 

“Sebastian? Sebastian!” Ella called out frantically, her claws scrambling up his leg. Sebastian hefted her up so her head was set in his lap before he calmly stroked her fur back in long, soothing motions. Her pleased little growls filled the room, easing the panic the badger had worked herself into as he watched the woman speak to Elthina. 

“What is it you needed?” He asked once Ella had calmed herself. She huffed slightly, dark eyes opening into thoughtful slits. 

“I think... I know that Goran's too soft-headed to formulate any ideas beyond what he wants for breakfast. He couldn't have orchestrated a coup. It would be too much effort.” Ella said, her nose sniffling in disgust. 

“I agree, Ella. You know I agree.” He placated his daemon, moving his fingers to scratch at the thick fur around her neck. 

“So that means someone else did it. Organized it, that is.” Ella shivered, and Sebastian knew it was a shiver of unease, even fear. “I don't like thinking that our lives are at risk and we don't know who our enemy is. I don't like being helpless.” 

“We are not helpless, Ella.” Sebastian replied. “We swore off the throne and we joined the Chantry. We have a home here, and allies. Friends and family.” They were not alone. The Chantry was more of a family than his blood relations ever were, save for his grandfather. Why should he care? He did not care. Earthly cares were behind him now. He should march down, take the notice down, cease this cycle of violence because shedding more blood would not bring his family back. It would fix nothing, and he did not care. 

He cared immensely. 

Grandfather would not have shrunk away, would not have let the world sweep this injustice aside. But Grandfather would have been careful. He would have gathered allies, discovered his enemies, and protected those he cared for before striking quickly and decisively. Grandfather would have known what to do. Sebastian missed him terribly. 

“Elthina's not much of an ally.” Ella grumbled. “We can't keep quiet, Sebastian. We can't ignore this. Someone needs to do something.” Ella's stubby tail twitched back and forth angrily. 

“I know, Ella. That's why we put out the notice.” Sebastian replied. Ella was not calmed by his words. She was agitated, irritated, as if there was an itch on the back of her neck that she just couldn't scratch. Sebastian was also afraid. Terribly afraid. It seemed like there was nothing he could do, that the few options they had were shrinking and disappearing before their eyes. They had to do something and quickly, before all chances of righting this wrong. And what if Goran was not just merely incompetent? What if his leadership destroyed Starkhaven? What if he tore the city to the ground with his soft-headed policies and childish greed? The coffers would be emptied to serve his avarice, to buy himself fine clothes and finer foods, to purchase art from Orlais and whores from all over Thedas- he would make Starkhaven his own personal playground of debauchery and drive the city to the ground. Even at his wildest, Sebastian would have never destroyed his own people to slake his personal lusts. 

“Why aren't we doing something? We should be proactive.” Ella complained, cutting through his musings and the depressing spiral his thoughts had taken. He did not know what to do, he did not know how to be proactive anymore. How could he, when he never had the chance to be a leader? He never had to lead men before. What if he was worse at it than Goran Vael ever could be? 

Grandfather would have said that it was important to make an attempt. Leaders were not born but forged in the fires of adversity. It felt like the greatest of betrayals to let Grandfather's city fall, when the wise old man had given every bit of himself to strengthening Starkhaven. 

“No. It is not our place-” Sebastian began, reciting Elthina's pacifist beliefs in a dull, often practiced tone. She advocated for non-violence, and any takeover of Starkhaven would lead to bloodshed. He could not in good conscious advocate for the deaths of his own people. No crown was worth that. 

“Sebastian, it's our job!” Ella said, her voice harsh and serious. “We can't turn our backs and pretend it never happened! The Vaels are dead and Goran's sitting on the throne. Even if we hate them, we can't let Goran ruin our home!” 

“The Chantry is our home.” Sebastian said automatically. 

“Sebastian, that's nug shit and you know it.” Ella replied frankly. Sebastian laughed, a laugh that was halfway between a gasp and a sob. Ella was right. She was always right, and Sebastian was glad to have her and her brutal honesty at this time of doubt and fear. The Chantry had given him a home and a purpose after he lost the one person who guided his life, but he knew he would always feel a strong connection to his homeland. 

“I know. But unweaving this tangle will not be easy.” He warned. Ella snorted in response. 

“What? Did you expect it to be?” She asked. Sebastian laughed again and cuddled Ella to his chest, as he would often do when he was a child. 

“Oh, Ella.” He said fondly, squeezing her tightly and rubbing his cheek against the top of her head, his bright blue eyes closed. “What would I do without you?” 

“You'd be dying of crotch rot in some disreputable bordello.” Ella replied sarcastically, but she snuggled right back with him. “Or you'd be on some stupid mission proselytizing to the Dalish and getting shot by arrows.” 

“It seems likely.” Sebastian agreed. His past self would have certainly been dead by now, and without Ella's influence he would have pushed to lead religious expeditions out in the Dales. He still felt like it was important to bring others to the Maker, but Ella convinced him to start in Kirkwall before going abroad. As she said, why traipse about in the wilderness when there were enough people in need of a god just outside the front door? 

“Of course.” Ella buried her furry snout into his chest. “Don't worry, Sebastian. We will get to the bottom of this.” 

“Of course we will.” Sebastian agreed as he sat back in his cot, the mad blood stirring in his veins not an hour before cooled by his conversation with Ella and their newfound resolved. “Of course we will.” 

For his beloved Grandfather, Sebastian would set this matter to rights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from both Romeo and Juliet (Act III, Scene I) and Edward Muir's Mad Blood Stirring: Vendetta in Renaissance Italy. Since both deal with vendettas and bloodshed between noble families, I thought it was particularly appropriate for Sebastian. I highly recommend Muir's work if you're interested in Italian Renaissance history. It's really good!
> 
> Thank you to everyone's support as I struggle through writing this. It's a lot easier to get motivated with so many people reading and giving kudos/comments/bookmarks, etc.. I appreciate it very much!

**Author's Note:**

> I have been sitting this idea for a long, long time, and have finally gotten around to actually putting up an opening chapter. Updates will be sporadic, but I hope to write more of this daemon!verse soon! Thank you to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, bookmarks, and/or comments on this, and feel free to ask any questions in the comments or on my tumblr. Thank you again!


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